


I'm Somewhere, You're Somewhere. I'm Nowhere, You're Nowhere.

by HathorAroha



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: AU of the alternate timeline, Alt!Chloe, Alt!max, Alternate Timeline, F/F, alt!Max is also deeply self-deprecating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HathorAroha/pseuds/HathorAroha
Summary: (AU of the Alternate Timeline in LiS)Maxine Caulfield wakes up after a night of partying it up and clubbing for her eighteenth birthday to discover a text on her cellphone:"Max, it’s with a saddened heart I have to tell you Chloe passed away last night, 21st September, at 11:30pm."She resolves to visit Chloe one more time, like the hypocrite that she is.
Relationships: Maxine "Max" Caulfield & Chloe Price, Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Chloe Price, Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Victoria Chase
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	I'm Somewhere, You're Somewhere. I'm Nowhere, You're Nowhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Santa Monica Dream", the song we hear when we put in Chloe's CD in episode one. 
> 
> Also, this is partly Deck Nine's fault I was inspired to write this. Essentially, I was playing Before the Storm's bonus "Farewell" episode the other day, and seeing how they made William die a full *week* after Max's birthday inspired my muses to think "What if Alt!Chloe died on alt!Max's own birthday?" This is all on you, Deck Nine. 
> 
> Anyway, yeah. This is *not* a happy fic.

“Uuugh…” 

Worst fucking hangover ever. Max’s head is pounding so hard she feels it might explode were she to move it even an inch. She can hear her cellphone pinging again with yet another text, and she pops open an eye, pulling her blanket down to see that it is already just after sunrise.

_What fucking time is this?_

Another ping. 

_Victoria texting me seventy times in five minutes, probably. I love you Vic, but chill._

She snakes a hand from under her blanket, face smooshed into her pillow like she’s never going to move from her comfy bed ever again for the next twenty-four hours. She fumbles around her night-stand until her fingers hit her cellphone, and she quickly grabs it, pulling it under the sheets with her, squinting at the bright light of her screen. 

_Just as I thought. Victoria Chase texting me ten messages in one minute._

In actuality, the number of messages from Victoria is more like four, just checking up on Max and see if she is doing okay, and not lain low with too painful a hangover from last night. 

_Eighteen years old. Still hard to believe I’m an adult. Damn. Drunkest. Ever._

She texts Victoria an assuring message and is about to go back to sleep when she spots an unread message from Chloe. 

_Oh yeah...I’d meant to see her...at some point, anyway._

Ordinarily she’d have just left it for later, having eyes only for her girls in the Vortex Club, but since she was already here in her messages, she might as well open it. 

_Another text imploring me to visit, probably. Maybe a happy birthday text? That’d be a nice surprise. I_ did _send her a happy nineteenth card back in March…_

The message that opens is anything but happy, and Max’s fingers freeze, hovering over her phone, unable to believe what she is reading. 

**Max, it’s with a saddened heart I have to tell you Chloe passed away last night, 21st September, at 11:30pm.**

_What._ What. _What? No way._

No, this couldn’t be for reals--it was fake, it was some kind of mistake. Maybe it was a message meant for another phone, for another Chloe’s family (or friend) to read. There were thousands of people named Chloe in the world, any one of whom might have died last night. Or maybe it _did_ mean Chloe Price, but it was some kind of stupid fake message, a _really not funny_ prank. If this was her idea of a birthday message, it was at least twenty different ways of messed up. 

_Okay, this is a sick joke. What the actual fuck, Chloe._

She texts Chloe back, fingers stumbling as though every one them had their own little hangovers too. 

**WTF, Chloe. I know you like your pranks, but this is messed up. Even for you. Don’t do it again.**

Max sends the text, lets the phone drop back on her blanket, staring up at the ceiling, willing her heart to just calm the hell down. This was not real, Chloe was still okay. 

_Shit. I’d promised to visit her ‘soon’. But this is not the way to guilt trip anyone. The hell, Chloe._

This was so not like Chloe at _all_ , not in any universe, not in any lifetime, unless...

_Did someone hack her phone somehow?_

That seemed a fuckton more likely than Chloe texting her something like that as a “joke” or some kind of messed-up “guilt trip”. 

_Pretty fucking shitty either way. Ugh. This is not how I wanted to wake up on the second day of being eighteen._

Her phone pings again a few minutes later, pulling Max back to the present. She picks it up to find a text signed off with “William”. Her hand flies to her mouth, eyes popping open as she reads the grim words. 

**Max, I’m afraid this is not a joke. Chloe passed away from her respiratory complications last night at 11:30pm.**

For a moment, the whole world, _time_ itself, freezes. The air is too still, too stifling, the floor seems to have dropped entirely out from under her bed, and she’s about to fall into the earth, sinking and sinking until she might reach its core. She doesn’t even flinch as a blue jay flies into her window, clattering the glass, the poor bird twirling wing over wing, disappearing from view as it falls. 

_No…_

She’s pretty sure she’s stopped breathing herself, her fingers have stiffened around the cellphone, eyes fixed to the text for so long the screen goes back to black. It’s so quiet she can hear a couple girls scream-laughing a few doors away. A dog barks somewhere in the courtyard--probably that one boy’s guide dog for the blind. 

_Chloe…dead? But--I haven’t even--I was going to! I was just too busy with my_ _parties and hanging out with the Vortex kids._

Maybe if she turned the phone on again, that message would be gone, and she could just put it down to some disturbing side effect of her hangover, still battering at her temples, on the insides of her skull. William’s messages would be gone, replaced by a cheery “happy birthday” from Chloe. It would’ve been so nice. And maybe it would’ve kicked her ass into actually visiting her instead of delaying it. She might be completely paralysed, but she was still Chloe...right?

_She was alive when I last texted her in like...what, last month? She can’t be...nope. It’s the hangover. Maybe someone put something in my drink last night and…I’ll literally find and kill whoever made this sick hallucination happen._

Max squeezes her eyes shut, opens them again as wide as they would go, as though that might wake her up fully again, headache or no headache. Her arm is already getting tired from holding up her cellphone, and she rolls over, resting her arm on her side as she unlocks her phone again.

_It’ll be “happy birthday, Max!” not...that._

Her heart skips a beat, her breath hitches, a hand covering her mouth again when she sees that the text is still there, stark and cold in its grim news. She reads each word, each syllable, each letter over and over again, as though if she read it a thousand times, a million times, a billion times, it would disappear. That after reading it a billion and one times, the words would magically melt away and all it would be is a cheery message from Chloe wishing her a happy eighteenth. 

Chloe--she couldn’t be--

She hadn’t even made time to visit her yet! 

_I was_ going _to, I swear!_

But now it was too late. All because she just wanted to go clubbing, get high with the popular crowd, go to parties, flirt with skater boys, and covertly oggle Victoria’s and Justin’s fine asses. All because she wanted to sneak out into concerts for people aged 21 and over only, and come back staggering drunk, eardrums bust and ears ringing for the next week. 

And now the unthinkable had happened, and Max didn’t even bother to suppress that tiniest of nasty whispers in the corner of her mind. 

_Karma, Maxine. It’s called karma._

On the other hand…

 _Hey asshole voice, whoever the hell you are, I had_ no _idea she was even dying. Fuck you._

But it persists, even when she pushes the blankets off her legs, sits up on her mattress, feet firm on the floor. The scratchy carpet under her toes feels too real, as does the springy mattress under her palms, and the brush of a strand of brown hair across her cheek as she looks down. 

_No one ever told me she was dying. I thought she was okay. I really thought…_

Her foot brushes back and forth over the carpet, feeling the static cling to her sole. 

_If I’d have known…would I have visited?_

She’d thought Chloe would be okay, would pull through. After all, she was the one always dragging her into reckless adventures, goading her into doing things Max was otherwise too chicken to do on her own. Nothing could dampen her wild spirit, her carefree nature, her enthusiasm for the world. All Max remembered was the old Chloe, the one who’d always make Max’s day brighter just by virtue of being in the same room. 

_I had no idea, Chloe. Why didn’t you say anything?_

That harsh voice from before has an answer to that. 

_You knew she was completely paralysed and you never visited her, did you? And now you expect her to tell you she’s dying? Hypocrite._

Max doesn’t want to get up off her bed, doesn’t want to get ready for the day, doesn’t want to meet up with the girls for breakfast, doesn’t want to do _anything_ but go back to sleep, forget any of this happened for a few more hours. 

_If I’d visited...would you be here today? Shit. Now I wish I knew._

There is a knock at the door, and Max practically jumps out of her skin, stifling a scream in time. 

“Come in.”

The door opens to reveal Victoria, who gasps on seeing Max’s state, quickly shutting the door behind her before ambling to sit down next to Max. 

“Damn, girl, the hangover that bad? I’m sure Nathan’s got a few remedies.” 

Max shakes her head. “I wish it was.” 

Victoria is silent for a few seconds, then puts a hand on Max’s shoulder, giving it a little massage. 

“Everything okay, Maxine?” 

She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing, not a sound comes out, she is like a TV turned on to mute. Max has to resort to leaning back over her bed, grabbing her phone to show the text to Victoria. 

“It’s...I got this…” 

The other girl gently takes Max’s phone in her own hand and reads the message, her other hand moving from the shoulder massage to wrapping around the brunette’s shoulders, holding her close. But Max remains stiff, unyielding, even though she ordinarily would have melted into Victoria’s arms, leaned her head on her shoulder, nuzzling into her neck as she tries to forget what just happened. 

“You haven’t told me much about this Chloe girl, Max. Other than that she was paralysed in an accident.” 

Max’s finger has found a thread sticking out of her pyjama arm, and she winds and unwinds the stray yarn around her fingertip. 

“We went to school together,” Max reveals, “We grew up together as kids.” 

“Really? Here in Arcadia Bay?” 

Max tries to smile, but it’s like her muscles are too heavy, and she cannot make herself do it. 

“In the one and only.” 

“Were you very close back then?” 

Part of her wishes Victoria would leave her alone, stop asking her questions about her and Chloe. Yet, another part wants her to stay, wants someone to talk to, to lend a sympathetic, listening ear for her. 

“Yeah,” Max affirms, “We were literally each other’s only friend. I was literally the shiest girl at school, you wouldn’t even believe. She…” 

“Wasn’t shy?” 

“Not around me.” 

“Was she very pretty?” 

_What does it matter if she’s pretty? She’s…_

“Yeah. Very pretty.” 

Max abruptly gets up from the bed, ignoring Victoria’s hurt look and her arm flumping to the mattress. She paces up and down the carpet, bare feet making tracks back and forth over the “Keep Calm and Carry On” rug she brought with her from Seattle. She stills mid-pace, facing her desk with her laptop set on it, when she hears Victoria’s soft little cry. 

“Oh no...she died last night? While we were--”

“Celebrating my eighteenth? Yeah.” 

“That’s...I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” And Victoria legit did sound like she had no idea what the fuck to say to someone who had lost their childhood friend on their own _birthday_. 

“Vic, I didn’t even know she was fucking _dying_ ,” Max’s voice has become hard, almost angry--or bitter, she wasn’t sure which. “I had _no idea_ she had months to live!” 

“Did she tell you?” 

Max whirls around, her darkening mood not helped by her hangover. “Did you hear what I said?” 

“Hey, chill, mad Max, I just asked--”

“No one--not her parents, not _Chloe_ \--no-one told me she was even dying! All I knew was she was paralysed from her neck down, that’s it, Vic! If I’d have _known_ she had only a few months left in her--that she was in so much pain--that her _respiratory system_ was fucked up so bad--”

“Would she have told you?” 

Max stops mid-thought, opening and closing her mouth, when no response sprang to her head. She blows out a breath, raking her fingers through her hair, trying to think if Chloe _would_ ever have told her, even if Max had made the effort to send her more letters and postcards. 

“Knowing her, no. She didn’t even tell me through text, and she _had_ my email.” 

“Maybe it was recent?” 

“Even so…” Max marvels that she still knows Chloe so well, even after so long. “No. No, she could be stuck out in the cold vacuum of space, and she would have still insisted she was fine.” A bitter sigh, folding her arms as she scuffs her foot on the rug, definitely not feeling the slogan’s cheery words today. “I’d have thought her parents would’ve told me this at least. I mean...I did fall out of touch with her for a while, but still!” 

“Do you blame them?” 

_The fuck I do._

“I’m--just--ugh. We were _best friends_. You’d think her parents would have told me.” 

_If anyone is to blame…_

Max forces her fists to relax, to take a deep breath, to try and stop her blood pounding in her head. She turns away from her bed, concentrating on her dead plant in the corner, hoping it might push out some of the darker thoughts. The hangover is bad enough without twenty different emotions also crowding up in there. She tries to count to ten, holding her anger back like it’s a little child about to burst into a temper tantrum. 

_Don’t. Blame. Chloe. Don’t you dare, Maxine Caulfield._

This was so not how she wanted to start off being eighteen. Fuck. This was just...fucked. Everything was fucked. 

_Should I visit? She’s dead, but…_

Would Chloe have wanted Max to see her dead in her bed, death having taken her away hours and hours ago while Max was partying it up and getting drunk for her eighteenth? Or would she have wanted Max to remember her as she was--the cheery, carefree soul who’d been the light of Max’s childhood since the latter was a pipsqueak of a five year old? 

_I...I owe it to her._

She was too late now to visit her in the land of the living, but--

_I owe her this. Just one last goodbye. Hypocrite. You’re a fucking hypocrite, Maxine. You never visited her once after her accident, but expect her to tell you she’s dying? Wow. Hypocrite much._

If only she could go back one day, hell, maybe two. Maybe then she’d spend the day at Chloe’s. Max might not have heard much back from her--if anything--despite all her letters, but still. She had deserved at least one visit from Max, even if for only one day. 

_I don’t want to see her...gone._

Max steels her resolve nevertheless, decision firm in her mind.

_This is your karma, Maxine. Maybe you sorta deserved this. Chloe dying on your own birthday._

She turns back to face Victoria still sitting on the bed, staring at her with deep concern. 

“Vic…” 

“Yes, Maxine?” 

“Will you have your car ready in twenty minutes?” 

“What? Why?” 

Max closes her eyes, tries not to see Chloe completely paralysed, tries not to see her unmoving in bed, struggling to even _breathe_ , yet still hoping to see her best friend again, even though said best friend flounced off to go clubbing, go to parties, sneak into frat houses, and get in with the popular crowd like the Vortex Club. She’d never told any of the popular kids she had a friend who was disabled, because what if they didn’t want to be friends with someone who had a handicapped bestie? That would’ve been _so_ not cool.

And for all of that, she tries _hard_ not to dwell on the very real thought that if Chloe’s parents hadn’t told Max about the accident, she would never have known what had happened to her. Chloe would have passed on, Max only ever discovering later that she had been paralysed at all. 

_I have to see her again. I have to. Even if to say...to say…_

She opens her eyes. 

“I want to say goodbye.” 

Max is grateful that Vic, for once, stays quiet as they roll down the road to the Prices’ residence, leaning her head against the cool window. She doesn’t protest or pull away when Victoria touches her hand, squeezes it briefly. 

“We’re almost there. What was the address again?” 

“44 Cedar…” 

“Got it, just remembered it again.” 

Victoria slowed and turned the corner down another road, turning a little later onto Cedar Avenue, Max’s heart skipping a beat. 

_Omigod...it hasn’t changed since I was last here...when I was thirteen…_

It would be nostalgic and exciting to be back here if it weren’t for--

If it weren’t for--

Victoria slows the car down and pulls up right across from--

Max shuts her eyes tight, wills herself to keep it together, to stay calm, composed for long enough. 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Maxine?” 

“Yes,” Max hisses between her teeth, “I have to. This is my karma.”

“Do you want me to come in with you?” 

Max shakes her head fervently. “No. I want to do this alone.” 

“You _sure_?” 

“I’ll text you when I’m ready, okay?” Max undoes her seat-belt, starts to open the door. “Really, Victoria. I will.” 

“As you insist,” Victoria says, giving Max’s hand another squeeze, much harder this time, a little too hard so that Max winces a little. “Let me know if you need anything else.” 

“Thanks, Vic, I’ll let you know.” 

Max plants one foot, then the next, steady and strong as she can, on the ground, ready to face saying goodbye to the friend she hadn’t seen face to face for five years. 

If only this reunion could be that much happier. 

There is a second, a split second, where Max falters at the mailbox, eyes flicking back to Victoria, who hasn’t moved her car at all, who is still watching intently from inside. She moves her mouth, but Max cannot hear what Victoria’s saying between the glass pane, the few feet of distance, and the bubbling of thoughts that she knows not whether they came first from her heart, her head, or somewhere else entirely different. 

Victoria rolls down the window. “Really, Maxine, you can turn back anytime now. I don’t mind.” 

Max turns her attention back toward the house, taken in by the striking blue of its exterior--William had finally finished painting the place. It would be beautiful, and she would stop to admire the work, if only what had happened hours before in this nostalgic little place wasn’t so sad. Her eyes roam down to the door, catching sight of the ramp angling gently up to it from the side. 

_For Chloe…_

The garden--it’s so gorgeous too, and roses are still nodding on either side of the path, and Max is tempted to pick a few of the flowers for Chloe. 

_Chloe wasn’t much a fan of flowers though...and Joyce might be pissed at me for picking them anyway._

“Maxine?” 

Victoria’s still in the car, waiting for Max to make a decision: turn back and never say the goodbye she shouldn’t have had to, or go forward and face what she should’ve done long, long ago, to reunite with Chloe. 

_I have to go in. I can’t turn back now._

“Maxine, if you’re worried that we wasted petrol, don’t worry. I have money.” 

“Oodles of it, I know,” Max says without looking back at the car. “I’m going in. For Chloe.” 

_They could’ve told me, they should’ve told me…_

She leaves Victoria behind and forces herself to walk up to the front door. There is no sound of a car driving off behind her, but she doesn’t bother to look back either to see if Victoria’s still watching, still waiting for Max to change her mind, to turn around, to run back into her arms, seeking her comfort and warmth. 

_Hangover or not, I’m going to see you one more time._

She knocks on the door, and there is no answer at first, and Max imagines that maybe they might have gone out, seeking a funeral director or home, or perhaps they just wanted out of there for a while. Max wishes right then she actually responded or called them up ahead of time, instead of just showing up like this out of the blue. 

_I could come back later. Please answer, please answer…_

A second knock, louder, more insistent, rapping harder than before. She knows she wouldn’t have the strength to come back again, she’s beyond sure of that now, she’s certain. This is way harder than she thought it would be, and she’s sure now it’s a mistake. 

_I should turn back--_

The door opens, and Max steps back with a jolt of surprise--it’s Joyce who answered, and her heart sinks at the lines of grief engraving her face, how red and puffy her eyes are. Yet, despite the grief, a small light of uplifted mood sparks in her eyes. 

“Max!” she half-whispers, half rasps. “We’d hoped you’d come--”

“And I never did, and it’s too late,” Max finishes, eyes never leaving Joyce’s face. “I should’ve come earlier.” 

Joyce sighs, leans against the door-frame--Max is pretty sure the door-frame is holding her up more than Joyce is holding herself on her own two feet. 

“Honey, believe me, Chloe would be glad you came to say goodbye either way.” 

“To--yeah--” Max can’t bring herself to say those two words, _say goodbye._

Joyce straightens up, though it’s clear it’s taking all the energy she has to keep herself upright, steps back from the doorway so Max can come in. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Joyce asks in a low voice, closing the door behind Max. “It will be…” 

“Yeah, I know. It’ll be hard.” Max squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, determined to be strong.

_Chloe would do the same, right? She always put on a show of bravery._

“But Joyce, I have to ask--” 

_Right now, Maxine?_

“Why did you never tell me how bad she was?” 

A flash of surprise crosses Joyce’s face. “Chloe never told you?” 

“I had no idea.” 

“I’d have thought she would’ve--” Joyce’s voice falters and she sighs, folding her arms. “I’m so sorry, Max, you never knew the full extent of her...condition.” 

“William said it was respiratory failure.” 

“Yes, Max. Sadly, her respiratory system had been failing for the better part of this year, since March, and the doctors told us she...she…” 

Joyce’s sentence fell away, but Max had a very sure, very certain feeling as to what she wanted to say that she couldn’t. 

_Shit._

“What, that she wouldn’t be spending another Christmas with you?” 

_Wow Maxine, you’re an expert in all things tact today._

Joyce turns her face away, shaking her head, not saying another word. Max waits, awkward in the hall, waiting for her to say something else, but after several seconds, it’s clear she wants to be left alone now. 

_You upset her. Way to go, Maxine Caulfield._

But right before Max continues down the hall, Joyce delivers a few more words. 

“She has--had--a new room now. It’s what the old garage used to be. William’s out right now, so I’m the only other one here. Go on then, Max.” 

Max quietly moves away from Joyce, the silence crackling and eddying around her head, her feet, her hands, her consciousness as she moves down the hallway, stopping before a corkboard with familiar photos of Chloe when she was so much younger, when she could swing high and chase seagulls in parking lots. A Chloe who still could skate, who could still freely enjoy life the way she used to, the way she should’ve been able to the last two years. 

She turns away from the photos, shuffling her feet through the piles and piles of nostalgia and memories spilling around her feet, washing around her head, like she is underwater, but in an ocean of forgotten childhood. It doesn’t help when she spots the small TV in the lounging area, and her vision swims with memories of popcorn, weekend kids’ shows, video games, and Disney movies. Max remembers the one and only time they had ever watched _The Lion King_ , and Chloe had been so traumatised by Mufasa’s death she absolutely _refused_ to watch any part of it again, not even the classic opening song with the stunning sunrise and sleepy animals awaking to a new day. 

She follows the corner, narrowly avoiding bumping into the bookcase with the old photo albums and the same books from years ago that were read a maximum of once, perhaps twice, if a book was especially liked. Max doesn’t want to think about all the photographs in those albums, no doubt full of images of Chloe when she was a kid. Max wouldn’t be surprised if there were even a few in there of herself and Chloe playing together, sworn best friends forever, playing at being pirates on the high seas. 

A model of the Eiffel Tower sitting on the desk near the door catches her eye, and Max stops to take it in her hand, examining it from every angle. 

_They finally made it to France. I remember._

Max still has that postcard from Chloe, in French of course, with no translation; she could almost hear Chloe telling her to go look it up or learn some French for once, then she’d know what she’d said. That was such a Chloe thing to do. 

And Max _had_ gone and researched what she’d written, and she remembered her heart warming when she had figured it out: 

_“Max, wishing you were here with me! You’d have so much fun with your camera, it’s beautiful here in France! We need to go together one day!”_

Max quickly sets the Eiffel Tower model on the desk, staring at it a little longer, stalling for time, delaying having to walk through that door that _used_ to be a garage. 

_Oh, France. You were so lucky to get to go, Chloe._

They were going to travel the world together when they grew up, weren’t they? Chloe was going to be her bodyguard-- _”I’d be like Lara Croft, except real. That’d be majorly cool.”_ \--and Max was going to take tons of photos of all their adventures. They were going to roam the world, free of adults telling them what to do. They would be together, adventuring through mountains and jungles and deserts and oceans and…

And Max would’ve been there, taking loads and loads of photos, Chloe never far from her side, her faithful companion, no matter where they went. 

_And now you’re just a few feet away from me. Beyond that door. Dead._

Max lets her hand run over the door, chips of wood prickling her fingers. She couldn’t put this off any longer now.

 _I have to do this. I_ need _to do this._

Max’s fingers curl around the door handle, closing her eyes as she pulls the door open. Not until the door was as wide as it would go, did Max dare open her eyes again. 

And--

And there she was, in her hospital bed, looking for all the world like she was just peacefully resting. Like she was just taking a moment to close her eyes, still waiting for the visit from her best friend that never came--until now, and far too little, too late. Max’s eyes flick between the IV drip and what appeared to be some kind of breathing machine, now turned off, no longer needed now that Chloe had passed on. Stacks of medicines, lotions, and towels were piled on the shelf above the bed, and spread across a couple dressers. A huge computer screen sat in a corner, turned off, as was the giant HD TV next to Max on her other side. 

_They gave her all of this? Wow._

But Max cannot bring herself to look much more around the room, nor can she look right at Chloe for now, instead opting to walk over to the board with several letters and postcards pinned to it. She spots one from some girl named Megan Weaver, the postcard her own parents had sent, and that photo of herself with the Hawt Dawg Man shirt and peace sign. 

_She had that dorky one of me up all this time? That’s...sweet._

Max is less impressed, however, by the choice of one of her own letters Chloe had chosen to have pinned to her board. 

“Really, Chloe?” she says aloud, her voice sounding too loud in the unearthly stillness of the room. “Out of all my letters, that’s the one you pick to have displayed? It’s so...awkward.” 

She nevertheless runs a finger over the letter, still touched that Chloe put it up at all, especially next to her photo she’d sent from some road trip. To think that all this time, Chloe had been slowly dying, probably with next to no visitors, forever hoping in vain that Max would visit once again, perhaps even sleepover and watch movies like they used to. 

There should be soft breathing, perhaps a little sleepy mumble from behind her. There should be jokey remarks from Chloe followed by little bouts of laughter when Max sassed her own response right back at her. There should be some movie on, Chloe imploring her to join her already and stop staring at the walls like a loony. There should be music coming from the computer, songs with a deep bass that Max could feel reverberating in her ribs. 

_Alright, time to say goodbye._

Max turns away from the corkboard, turns to stare at Chloe again in her bed, her hands draped over her stomach, one folded over the other. Her head is turned toward her, eyes half-closed in death, a hint of blue still peeking through. It takes Max’s breath away to see how much more beautiful she had become over the last five years, her short blonde hair falling forward over her high cheekbones. Her lips are parted slightly, like she is about to speak to Max, demand where the hell she’s been all this time. 

“Chloe…” Max breathes, and her stomach drops, dizziness spreading through her as the full realisation hits her in the gut: she really _is_ dead. She really _has_ passed on from this mortal coil. “Fuck, I wish I’d _known_.” 

Max forces herself to move toward the bed, though every part of her is crying out to run away, to go back to Victoria, to get away from this, to leave and never have to see Chloe like this ever again. When she reaches the bed, she makes herself sit down next to Chloe, the hospital bed squeaking under her as she lets her hands fall limp in her lap, wanting to take her eyes off Chloe, but at the same time, couldn’t tear her gaze away. 

_Too little, too late._

She wonders if she should even touch Chloe--is it okay if she holds her hand, if she touches her face, or hair? Yes, Chloe would never know, never be aware again of anything, let alone her so-called best friend, but still.

Max tentatively reaches out and slips a hand under one of Chloe’s, cradling it against her palm, heart sinking at how wasted away her arms looked from lack of use and from battling the respiratory illness. It was strange to think even thirty-six hours ago, Chloe had still been breathing, still living, still praying for Max’s return. And of _all_ the days of the year--of all 365 days available--Chloe had to die on the 21st September. 

“You ass, Chloe,” Max finds herself quipping, like they’re in the middle of their old banter, “Out of all the available days in the year, you die on my birthday. Couldn’t you have waited thirty more minutes?” 

No response. Of course there wouldn’t be. Max’s hand tightens on Chloe’s, now holding it between her own. 

“Chloe, you should’ve _told_ me something,” she whispers, “I had _no_ clue--like no fucking idea--you were slowly dying this whole time. Why?” 

Nothing but the frenetic chirp of a bird outside the window. 

“At least...I think I know why. You never would’ve wanted me to worry about you, right? To think about you...dying?” Max swallows hard, forcing herself to look at Chloe’s face, to imagine her listening. “All while putting on a strong front of bravery.” Max shakes her head, chest constricting. “That’s--that’s my Chloe. Haven’t changed have you? After five years, you’re still Chloe Price.” 

How can silence be so...claustrophobic? Everything in Max is screaming to get out of here, she’s said her goodbye, she can go now she’s seen Chloe. A slow panic crawls up in her, unable to think of what else to say to Chloe, a Chloe who couldn’t even hear, let alone talk back at, her. 

“I took you for granted, didn’t I?” Max reflects, staring down at the hand cradled between hers. “Just went off to my parties and shit, taking for granted you were still around. That--that there was still more time.” 

_Time--I hate you. Fuck you, time._

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I’d had no idea you were...your lungs were failing.” Max catches sight again of the turned-off ventilator. “You needed a goddamn _machine_ to breathe for you.” 

_What if I’d called her? What if I’d actually visited her in the hospital that day? What if I’d made my parents drive me to visit Chloe? What if--_

Could the “What If” braincell in her head just shut up for a bit? It really wasn’t helping her or the dull headache throbbing in her cranium. 

“No-one told me, Chloe,” Max’s voice cracked around its edge, “I wish you’d just _told_ me. Maybe I would’ve--would’ve come sooner.” 

Max stares at that still face, still and so blank in death. It was as though the expression, the personality, of Chloe had been erased forever from existence the very moment she’d taken her last machine-assisted breath. 

_Would she smile that way she does if she saw me now?_

Slipping one of her hands from around Chloe’s, Max wills her fingers to stay steady as she reaches out to touch her cheek--cool to the touch, but not as cold as she’d feared it would be. She strains to breathe, hating the way it shudders down her throat, drops into her lungs, weighs her down from the inside. 

_I want to be pissed at you, Chloe, but I can’t. I just can’t._

Withdrawing her hand from Chloe’s cheek, she lets it rest on a wasted shoulder, her eyes wandering to the window, catching sight of their faded childhood drawing resting against the fence. 

_I swear, that was in a different place… wait. Did she have it moved so she could see it...us?_

“Chloe...I can’t believe you still have that drawing we did. It took us all day to draw didn’t it?” Max sighs, continues to talk in a feather-soft voice, “Damn. Nearly forgot about that.” Her eyes are starting to sting. “I hope wherever you are...you’re in that world. The world we drew. I really do.” She bites her lip hard, desperate to hold her tears at bay--crying wasn’t going to bring Chloe back. “You’ll be waiting for me, right? Waiting like…” She bows her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “God, Chloe. You waited this whole time for me, and--and I never came.” 

_We’ll write each other all the time…_

_...we’ll get good at it…_

_...We’ll always be Max and Chloe. Forever._

_...I will always, always love you._

Max doesn’t remember letting go of Chloe’s hand, allowing it to drop back on the bed. 

Nor does she remember wrapping her arms around Chloe, burying her head in her shoulder like the hypocrite she is. 

She doesn’t remember any of that. 

All she hears now are her muffled sobs. 

And the tears soaking into Chloe’s shoulder. 

The tears--they’d never bring Chloe back. What a waste. She didn’t have the right to cry for Chloe, to miss her like this, when she’d never visited even when she came back, not until it was too late.

And yet. 

She cries anyway. 

_Hypocrite._


End file.
